Page 68 of The Spy’s Song

Louise's gaze flew toward the headquarters. Tomorrow she would cross that threshold not as a hidden daughter asking to be recognized, but as an officer recommended for distinction.

All those years holding the post, all those years insisting that being left behind did not mean being forgotten, seemed suddenly to gather into an answer so complete that Louise could scarcely contain it.

Gérard was grinning and saying something. Another chasseur struck Louise between the shoulders. She pressed one hand to her chest, but happiness had grown too large to contain. It rushed into her limbs until standing still seemed impossible.

Rodrick had to know. He would never believe this. She turned back toward the streets where the cavalry had been quartered. Her feet moved too quickly. She nearly collided with a corporal carrying a saddle, apologized, then found herself smiling at the man when he looked at her as though Lieutenant d'Arc had suffered a head injury.

Louise had barely passed the chapel when a hand closed around her arm and pulled her out of the street.

Rodrick.

He drew her into a narrow strip of shade beside the stone building.

Louise's heart, already working beyond sensible capacity, somehow found another speed. "You will not believe what happened."

Rodrick frowned. Something about him felt too controlled—his mouth set without its habitual mockery, his shoulders held as though he had braced for an impact.

She was grinning so much her cheeks hurt. "De Brissac has just come from Soult's headquarters. He recommended me for the Légion d'honneur. I am to present myself tomorrow. The Emperor is going to give it to me himself."

Rodrick did not smile.

She searched his face. "Rodrick?"

Louise became aware of the silence around them. No soldiers. Only flies moved lazily around a patch of weeds growing beside the wall. Something was wrong.

Her attention shifted past his shoulder.

A carriage waited in the lane. Not a military vehicle. A traveling coach, and both horses stood with their heads lowered. A postilion waited beside them. Brutus stood tied behind.

Louise's smile disappeared, and cold spread beneath her ribs.

"Who does this carriage belong to?"

Rodrick exhaled. "To you, Louise."

***

Louise stared at the letter while the carriage raced away from Charleroi. The wheels struck every rut hard enough to jar her teeth. Dust streamed past the windows.

Across from her, Rodrick held another letter bearing the same hand. Louise's fingers closed around hers until the paper buckled. She could tear it apart. She could throw the pieces through the window, order the postilion to turn, and be back in Charleroi before nightfall. Tomorrow she could stand before Napoleon in Lieutenant d'Arc's uniform.

Hands shaking, she broke the seal.

Mademoiselle de Bonnechoix,

You will proceed immediately to Brussels.

Your escort travels under the name Lord Edmund Vane. You are his wife, Lady Isabelle Vane, recently arrived from their estate in Kent.

Once there, you will procure an invitation to the Duchess of Richmond's ball. The Duke of Wellington will be present.

The Empire's survival requires the Iron Duke's death before the armies engage.

The method has been arranged. You will find what you need upon arrival at the address enclosed. Keep this a secret from everyone, including your escort.

You will ask yourself whether this is just. I invite you to consider instead whether it is necessary. History does not ask the first question. It asks only the second.

Your father has carried the weight of France on his shoulders for twenty years. He has asked nothing of you until now. He is asking now.